


once bitten; twice shy

by jolybird



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon Era, Character Turned Into Vampire, Christmas Fluff, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, So like no one DIES dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolybird/pseuds/jolybird
Summary: Prouvaire opened his eyes on the sticky wet cobblestones of a back alley and his first thought was of Courfeyrac.
Relationships: Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	once bitten; twice shy

**Author's Note:**

> I think the only time I tag fics for major character death, I either immediately bring them back or they were never actually dead in the first place. Or they're Uther Pendragon (full offense, I burnt caramel apples when he kicked it on BBC Merlin and I still haven't recovered). But I didn't want to NOT tag it just in case. Major Character Death refers to being turned into a vampire ONLY. I am NOT about that angst life. 
> 
> Also this is my first canon era Les Misérables fic that isn't a Dinotopia AU. I am very very slowly making my way to a proper canon era fic.

There was a sort of deceptive calm about Paris during the holidays. Some of the roughness was buffed away by the heightened charity and the cold. Prouvaire shivered and pulled his coat around him tightly. He had, unfortunately, prioritized fashion over warmth that morning and now that the sun had dipped beneath the horizon, he was suffering for it.

Poverty still ran rampant throughout the city but when you tucked yourself into the warmth of your own word--hat, coat, scarf--it was easy to miss the figures huddled in the shadows. Prouvaire made it a habit to keep his eyes open and to keep a sou or two in his pocket, just in case he could do a tiny bit of good somewhere. It wouldn't be enough to save anyone, but it would keep them fighting to see another sunrise. 

Around him Paris was adorned with garlands and ribbon, smiling faces and charity. He loved the city and he’d fight for it--

Someone screamed.

Prouvaire’s steps didn’t stop but they slowed as he looked around. The city kept with it’s Christmas-ing, ignoring the scream. There was another scream from the shadows down an alley and he ran towards it.

* * *

Prouvaire’s parents were headstrong in their beliefs. They believed that only God could judge them. They believed in treating everyone with kindness and respect. They believed the uproar that occurred in their town when they hired a tutor for their son was the biggest waste of time since they tried to make the Fae pay property taxes. Anyone else might have been run from town but not the Prouvaires. They turned their noses up and informed every misguided soul who asked or dare try to question their judgement that they had a right to hire any tutor that could successfully teach their son sums. If he happened to be a werewolf--so be it.

Jacques had done the impossible and kept Prouvaire focused on his studies as well as the clouds and had been the reason he had been accepted to l'École de droit de Paris, which really was more than his parents could ever hope for. Prouvaire wasn’t dull, he excelled in languages and poetry, but there was always friction between his wants and the curriculum. Jacques had bridged that and that made him invaluable.

Prouvaire had tried to beg his tutor to come to Paris with him, if only so that he would have companionship in a still new and unfamiliar city. But Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port had been rotten enough to Jacques and Paris would be ten times worse. Paris was no place for a werewolf. Besides, as Jacques was all too keen to point out, there were plenty of other creatures hiding in the shadows just waiting for an opportunity to strike. He had been bitten by one creature, he wasn’t keen to meet another. Prouvaire had laughed and gently teased him about it in their letters that neither failed to send on time. 

It had been Jacques who put him in touch with Les Amis de l’ABC. He owed his tutor much more than he could ever repay him, just for that introduction alone.

Prouvaire opened his eyes on the sticky wet cobblestones of a back alley and his first thought was of Courfeyrac.

Prouvaire had sat across from Courfeyrac in lectures. There was just something about him that kept Prouvaire’s pen scratching across his parchment and the margins of his textbooks. He had been anxious beyond belief the first time he followed Jacques’ contact, Bahorel, into the back room that was to become one of his most frequented locations in all of Paris. Then he saw Courfeyrac who leapt to his feet, all smiles and shared drinks, and suddenly Prouvaire knew he was where he belonged.

Prouvaire scraped his fingers along the cobblestones as he tried to regain his bearings. A sick, swooping longing ripped through him and made him gag. His stomach turned, his mouth tasted of copper--his pulse--his pulse was still.

The only sound around him was the wind howling through the streets and the cobblestones were cold against him. They were grimy with--

He had to return to his rooms.

As he pushed himself up with aching arms, Jacques words came back to him. The werewolf that had turned his tutor had found him walking home from school through the woods. He could see his house, his brothers had heard his screams and ran out to find him. They had saved his life but the beast’s teeth had already pierced his skin.

Prouvaire climbed to his feet. The alley was dark, he could see no other forms. There was no one to save or be saved by. He dragged himself home as it began to rain. He didn't know the hour but it must have been late because there wasn't another soul to see him. The freezing rain left him drenched but he made it back to his rooms, locked the door behind him, and sank into a chair.

The sun rose and then fell again.

He sat still, not breathing, not bleeding until the sun rose once more. For all his efforts, his rooms refused to become a crypt. He still had the same thoughts, the same feelings as before the attack in the alley. He had class but there was a hunger growing inside him and he couldn’t trust himself with the world outside his front door.

He remained seated in the chair but his thoughts were still his own. Once Jacques had said of all the things in his life, he was most thankful that it was a werewolf that attacked him. He only turned for a single night once a month. He hadn’t been taken by the Fae or bit by a--

Prouvaire suddenly remembered pained eyes, a strangled cry, a hand reaching for help that he wasn’t strong enough to provide.

He pushed himself from his chair and tore the bloody clothes off of his body. He hadn’t been able to save the woman in the alley but her body hadn’t been there when he woke. Had she been turned as well? Had she been taken?

Did he start a fire? Burn his ruined clothes? Pacing the apartment, something moved across the room and he flinched, expecting another attack. After what would have two days ago been a heartbeat, he realized it was only himself starting back at him. Faded, small, terrified. He watched his reflection in his looking glass as his feet found their way in front of it. His skin was pale and the puncture wounds at his neck were impossibly small. How could something so tiny destroy his life? He shut his eyes against the sight but still the world wouldn’t bury him.

Jacques had said the world hadn’t ended with the werewolf bite or that first full moon when his body had betrayed him and transformed into something bloodthirsty.

The world kept moving, the stars still shined, the snow continued falling. 

But what could he do? He couldn’t go back to his life like his heart was still beating in his chest. He was a danger to every soul who shared the room with him. 

There was a knock on the door and the voice he was most dreading called out, “Prouvaire you promised to let me know when you were missing lecture so I could miss with you.”

Prouvaire spun around to face the door but he had locked it when he had last come in and Courfeyrac could not enter.

“Are you ill? Prouvaire? I will break this door down--”

Prouvaire raced across the room to put one hand gingerly on the door in the spot Courfeyrac’s chest would be. “I’m here. I’m fine.”

“What’s wrong?” He asked immediately and Prouvaire's still chest felt like it would burst. He had to pretend. He had to lie to the one person who always saw through him. 

“Nothing. I didn’t feel--well enough for class but I’m alright now.”

“Let me in so I can be judge of that. We all know your self preservation skills are lacking when it comes to Aeschylus.”

“I cannot open the door but I assure you that I am fine.” He said firmly. If Courfeyrac came in now to see him in this state of un--dressed, there would be no relief from him and the hunger inside him was growing. 

Courfeyrac muttered something under his breath at this that made Prouvaire check himself for any signs of blood. His fingernails were dark and there was still a matter of his current state of undress. If he did indeed fight his way into his rooms--no. He had to convince him to leave. When Courfeyrac spoke again, his voice was softer. “That does nothing to assure me of your well being.”

“Truly, I am fine.”

After a moment in which both basked in the blatant lie, Courfeyrac asked in a shocking show of early defeat, “Will you be at the meeting tonight?”

He couldn’t expose his friends to this danger. He would not do that to him just because he desperately needed to see them, to reassure himself that they were safe. They would be safer the farther away he was from them.

‘“Jehan?” Courfeyrac asked, his voice betraying how concerned he way. He sounded young and unsure which was highly irregular for him.

Prouvaire drew in a shaky breath his lungs didn’t need and his chest ached with the want of it. “Yes. Yes, I’ll meet you there.”

“Excellent. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do for you now?” Courfeyrac’s smile was evident in his voice.

“No! I’m fine!”

“If you’re not at the meeting I will come back and I will kick down your door.”

“I give you permission.” Prouvaire's words betrayed him and he pulled his hands away from the door only to place them back a moment later. Courfeyrac was close enough to touch, separated only by the door. Separated only by an alleyway. Only by a bite. 

Courfeyrac laughed and then sighed, “Alright. I’ll be waiting so don’t be late.”

“I’ll see you tonight, Courfeyrac.” Prouvaire said, still unsure if this was goodbye. 

Courfeyrac sighed again, “until tonight.”

“Goodbye!”

Courfeyrac sighed a third time but this time there were footsteps going back down the stairs. Prouvaire rested his head against the door. He sighed. And then sobbed.

Tears trailed down his face and the shock of the wet on his cheeks stunned him to silence. He wiped the tears away and looked at his hands.

He could still cry. That meant that, somewhere, somehow, he was still human. He was still the person Courfeyrac would be waiting for in the cafe later that evening. He was still…

He still _was_.

He turned back to his rooms that were not a grave. Jacques had said over and over that the bite had not ended his life. The bite in the alley would not end Prouvaire’s life either.

First things first--wash up. Get all the dirt and grime and blood off of him. Take his bloody clothes and burn them. Then he was going to put on his most usual outfit and head to the butchers. He was going to get pig’s blood for blood sausages for the holidays. His grandmother was English and his Maman liked it. It reminded her of her childhood. He would get the pigs blood and he would drink it until the hunger subsided and then he would be safe for the Les Amis de l’ABC meeting that evening.

It would be fine. He forced himself to breath in and then out again, short, casual breaths. He opened his windows to the December chill and let the noise of the city come in.

These rooms were not a tomb and the story of Jean Prouvaire was not yet finished.

* * *

It was not fine.

Prouvaire’s cravat was tied too tight so that it covered the damning marks at his neck and his hair felt limp on his shoulders. He walked into the room that held all of his most treasured friends and he very nearly turned around and walked back out.

Courfeyrac stood at once, crying out his name and making his way around the tables to him. He put a drink in his hand--Mourvèdre--his favorite--of course. “You look a little rough. When Bahorel told me you weren’t at lecture I could scarcely believe it.”

“When we spoke earlier I thought you implied that you had noticed my absence _yourself_.” Prouvaire had lecture with Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Bahorel so for _Bahorel_ to be the only one to betray his absence meant that the world had truly shifted.

As if summoned, Bahorel came into the room with Genevieve, his mistress, on his arm. Technically women weren’t allowed in their meeting room but Bahorel never listened. Sometimes Joly and Bossuet’s mistress voiced her opinion as well. Notably, Combeferre’s sister once brought the room to thunderous applause.

“Prouvaire!” Bahorel bellowed, “Am I the last studious man here? I go to the Colosseum and none of my fellow gladiators are to be found! I was outnumbered, surrounded by nothing but juvenile _lawyers_.”

“The four of us are all students of the law.” Prouvaire reminded him and Bahorel shuddered.

“Please don’t speak ill of us.”

Courfeyrac smiled, “will you be there tomorrow?”

“Probably not.” Bahorel told him gravely and his mistress hit him on the arm.

“Of course you will be.” she hissed, shaking her head.

“Well, my parents are visiting to bring me home for the holidays so I must assume by role as obedient son if only a short while.”

“I’m thrilled.” Courfeyrac told them, putting his hands on his hips. “We will go to a cafe for coffee and tea beforehand to steel ourselves for the battle.”

The pair of them were going to attend lecture drunk again. Well, the least he could do was go and take notes for them and be a sober companion to Enjolras. He would pretend to be normal for as long as he could but people like him were always found out in the end. He would do everything he could to make his friend’s lives better now because soon he wouldn’t have that power.

“Let’s stop talking about the law. It’s made Prouvaire suddenly melancholy.” Courfeyrac said, looking straight at him. Sometimes Prouvaire felt like the man knew him better than he knew himself. He forced a smile on his face that Courfeyrac immediately read as empty. Prouvaire looked around the room for an escape.

He found it in the back corner of the room. “Excuse me, I promised Grantaire that I would scold him for taunting the wrath of Jupiter.” He tightened his grip on his drink and made his way to the back table. He left a seat in between himself and Joly who was trying to judge his reflection in the back of his spoon.

Courfeyrac sat down next to Enjolras but his eyes met his as he glanced over. He frowned in concern and Prouvaire tried to ignore him and listen to what Bossuet was currently giggling over. He was going to need the combined support of both Joly and Bossuet if he was ever going to make it through this meeting with his eyes on him. 

Thankfully, the pair was always ready to help raise their friends’ spirits and the meeting was drawing to a close before he knew it. Courfeyrac tried to catch him as everyone filed out but he pretended not to see him and raced the dark back to his rooms.

* * *

Enjolras frowned when he saw him the following morning at the cafe. Prouvaire had again debated the pros and cons of venturing out in the world but his desire to see his friends won out in the end. He drank another glass of blood that morning to keep the hunger from reemerging. “Bahorel and Courfeyrac aren’t here yet. Are you alright? You’re pale.”

Prouvaire stepped away from him and tried to make it seem like part of his shrug, “I’m fine. It just gets dark so quickly this time of year, it feels like I hardly ever see the sun.”

“Classes will be on break soon.”

“And we’ll have time to focus on more important things.”

“Like Agrippa d’Aubigné.” Enjolras teased. 

Prouvaire smiled and Enjolras echoed it.

The door slammed open and Bahorel and Courfeyrac stood sheepishly in the doorway. The tried to sneak inside but after that overenthusiastic entrance, they just looked ridiculous. Prouvaire’s chest swooped at the sight of them like his heart was trying to beat again.

“Apologies for our tardiness.” Courfeyrac said with a quick, baffling, wink in Prouvaire’s direction.

Bahorel sat down as if he was coming from the battlefield, “We sincerely did not want to join you this blustering December day but our dear friend here positively threw a fit when I suggested we abandon our lunch rendezvous.”

“When are you headed home with your parents?” Enjolras asked, steering the conversation away from territory that would make their friend attempt to defect their mission. 

“End of the week.”

“That’s not too bad, today is the last lecture and then we just have to sit exams. I’m due to make an appearance at my parent’s--” Enjolras began like he was being forced to sit extra exams. In a way, he kind of was. Prouvaire's family knew Enjolras' and evenings spent at their household were never what you would refer to as pleasant (except for his friend's company of course--that was always delightful). 

“His parents are having a party.” Courfeyrac announced, leaning forward with such enthusiasm that Prouvaire laughed. 

“Are you planning on crashing it?” 

“We’re crashing it, mon oisillon.” Courfeyrac said, reaching out and touching his cold hand. He frowned.

Prouvaire found himself laughing bewilderingly despite himself. Oh, he could not attend a holiday party but the thought of it was nice.

“You and your parents are formally invited, actually. They should have received the invitation by now.” Enjolras frowned, despite his detest of his parents and the life they led, he was concerned at the thought of his friend being slighted. 

Courfeyrac gasped, “Pardon me? The Prouvaire are invited but not the illustrious de Courfeyracs?”

“If there were any illustrious de Coufeyracs here I would be sure they would be invited.” Enjolras told him dryly as their lunch was delivered and Prouvaire wrapped his hands around his tea. Courfeyrac gasped dramatically and then quickly tucked into his lunch. 

Prouvaire laughed again. It was easy to forget the horror that was his body when his friends were so blissfully unchanged.

Courfeyrac turned his attention to him and his laughter, “I’m glad you’re finding amusement in this. My own childhood friend. The man who saved me from becoming a Fae’s plaything.”

“The jury’s still out on if you are, in fact--” Enjolras began, leaning back in his chair but Courfeyrac interrupted him, offended at the very notion. 

“If anyone is a changeling at this table it would be--” Courfeyrac looked to Prouvaire then to Enjolras and then to Bahorel. “Well, it could be any of us but certainly I least of all.”

Prouvaire sipped his tea, the smallest of sips just to wet his lips.

“All this talk of the Fae has Prouvaire unconfident in his lunch.” Bahorel told the other two with a great sweeping gesture. Prouvaire made a show of taking another small sip.

“When are you leaving the city? Or are you staying in Paris this year?” Enjolras asked, leaning over as if to ignore the other two.

Prouvaire pursed his lips, “ I’m unsure.”

“Really?”

“You don’t have much time left to be unsure.”

Prouvaire shrugged like he hadn’t yet made up his mind, “I’ll figure it out.”

Courfeyrac frowned and crossed his arms as he leaned back in his chair judging him closely.

“Have I told you my parents have invited Genevieve’s family to stay with us this holiday?”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac sighed, his attention slipping from Prouvaire to Bahorel “you’ve told us this daily since the invitation was made and accepted in November.”

“If you’re not careful, they will convince you to make the switch from mistress to wife.” Prouvaire told him before taking another very small sip of tea. It was warm on his throat and made him feel whole.

Bahorel stilled at the very prospect.

“Yes, your parents might guilt you into an honest man.” Courfeyrac teased and Bahorel shuddered, turning to Enjolras to change the subject.

The four continued their conversation until they had to take to the streets at a run in order to make it to class on time.

By focusing on taking the most comprehensive, legible notes, Prouvaire was able to make the lecture speed by. The world may change but his hand formed letters the same. The shape of the familiar letters calmed him. His friends kept sending him amused glances when they realized he was actually taking notes for once, not penning a new verse. He couldn’t grapple with poetry now. His mind was too turbulent. But he would take notes for his friends to read after he was gone. He had to visit his parents tonight. He had to--He gripped the pen tightly. Thinking about it now didn’t do any good. He sighed wistfully as the professor dismissed them. He enjoyed listening to people speak about things they were knowledgeable about. It was a nice change of pace to pay attention to it as well. He filed out with the rest of the students, losing his friends in the shuffle. Best to slip home now while they were separated. Prouvaire pulled his scarf around his mouth to try to dull the smell of the students. He always heard that--that creatures like him could smell the blood of humans and crave it but--these men just smelled like they hadn’t bathed in an age and a half. He was going to washed up immediately and damn the cold.

Before he could make his escape, however, Courfeyrac caught up with him, “do you want to get something to eat with me? We could get something at the market and go back to the Hôtel de la Porte St-Jacques.”

“I really have to get home to my parents. Papa will be waiting for me to go over the recent news. I always go visit them this time of the week.”

Courfeyrac frowned because he knew he didn't go to his parents until later in the evening but he also must know Prouvaire wouldn't make an excuse unless he needed it. “You’ll be Paris’ most cultured lawyer.” he said, as means of a compromise. 

Prouvaire put a finger over Courfeyrac’s lips and made a show of looking over his shoulder, “Hush, don’t let Bahorel hear you use that word.”

“With all of us receiving our education at the rue d’Assas, the odds are that one of us will have the misfortune of disappointing him.”

“Odds are that it will, unfortunately, be him.” Prouvaire removed his finger from Courfeyrac's lips and the heat was imminently drawn away by the cold. 

“Now that would be a riot.” Courfeyrac smirked, the prospect was evidently entertaining him to no end.

Prouvaire frowned, “That’s what I fear.”

Courfeyrac laughed and his eyes lit up at the idea. Then he sighed and looked around at the dwindling crowd, “well, if I can’t seduce you to supper, I’m forced to let you go to your parents. Do you want me to walk with you?”

Prouvaire tried to force his smile into something other than melancholy but the quickly suppressed downward tilt of Courfeyrac’s lips let him know that it had been unsuccessful. “I don’t want you to have to walk so far out of the way.”

Courfeyrac went to protest but Prouvaire shook his head. Courfeyrac sighed, “Alright. But please hurry for me--it’s absolutely frigid out and you’ve been cold enough as it is lately.”

“I shan't stop for even the most tempting of distractions.”

“Thank you.” Courfeyrac said, reaching out and taking his hands briefly. He wanted to say more but he held his tongue. Prouvaire watched his face and then pulled away and all but raced down the street. He could feel Courfeyrac watching him so he tried to slow his pace and appear as normal as possible. He forced himself to breath in and out before it occurred to him that he had not drawn breath the entire conversation. Hopefully, he had been too preoccupied to notice. If he had noticed he would have said something, wouldn’t he? If your friend was talking to you but appeared to not be breathing he’d write it off as being melodramatic. He’d be fine. Courfeyrac didn’t know anything was wrong.

* * *

Prouvaire had somehow earned a minor favor from the gods for he was able to convince his parents to return to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port without him. He had too many things to do in the city he had argued, and he had friends to spend Christmas Day with.

His mother had cried and they had promised to have a small celebration after they returned to Paris in about a months time. His gifts had been shipped to their country home but that didn’t matter. It was better his mother cried over an absence at Christmas rather than her son losing control and staining their holiday red.

He avoided his neighbors, his friends, the city, for days. Every butcher this side of Paris knew that his grandmother was English and his mother had a soft spot for blood sausages around the holidays. There were trustworthy butchers in the city who would supply him what he needed without lies but to seek them out would be to make this all real.

His parents left the city.

Prouvaire went to sit exams. His friends tried to catch him afterwards but he let himself be blown away in the early afternoon snow. He thought he heard someone call after him but he continued on, trying to hide on the crowded street. He ducked around the corners until the crowd thinned and he no longer felt like he was suffocating. It was an unpleasant feeling to know you were the only nonliving creature in the crowd.

It was a worse feeling to know that he might _not_ be.

The woman from that night and the person that had--done this to him were still out there, somewhere, in Paris.

He listened to the city that he loved, the city that had been the death him of once and probably would be so again.

He realized suddenly that there were footsteps echoing his. He turned towards them because a robbery was the least of his concerns--he didn’t need his gloves and the sous in his pocket weren’t meant for his use. He also knew who was trying to catch up with him. He recognized the footfalls. Courfeyrac was several feet behind him, cheeks flushed, breathing hard. “Where on earth are you running to?”

“I was headed home and trying to avoid the crowds.” Prouvaire told him, his voice calm and even, fighting the urge to flee. 

Courfeyrac shrugged and nodded, “I was trying to catch up with you because my father just informed me you have chosen to stay in Paris to celebrate Christmas with friends.” Prouvaire smiled because, yes it _was_ odd that Courfeyrac wasn’t included in that particular plan. He was scarcely excluded from anything Prouvaire did in the city. His friend had even partaken in a seance despite everyone knowing he didn’t have the disposition for it. Courfeyrac had slept in Prouvaire’s bed for a week afterwards and had refused to speak to Grantaire for twice as long after he confessed he had faked some of the more supernatural happenings that night. Prouvaire still quietly believed there had been a real spirit with them, they had hovered around Pontmercy who had that week allowed himself to be social. “What’s wrong?”

Prouvaire shook his head, there were only a few days until Christmas and his friends would soon be too busy to notice his off behavior and absence.

Courfeyrac, however didn't seem to care about how close Prouvaire was of escaping the truth until after the holidays, “You don’t have to tell me but have you spoken to someone, anyone, about whatever it is that’s troubling you?”

Prouvaire shook his head, “I’m perfectly fine.” Courfeyrac was unconvinced so he added, “I just need some time to think about things on my own.”

“So you’ve not a secret social circle or mistress hiding in the shadows.”

Prouvaire laughed at the relief on his friend’s face although he didn’t quite know why. “No. Nothing like that. I just don’t want to go south this year and I cannot keep my parents from their merriment.”

“You can’t spend Christmas on your own,” he said.

Prouvaire could hear Courfeyrac heartbeat quicken and that was all the more reason to stay locked away, “I really should go.”

“Prouvaire.”

“Courfeyrac, I really cannot spend Christmas with you.” He reached out and took his hands. His friend’s eyebrows shot up but he didn’t mention how his hands were ice cold. He always had the most tact out of all their friends.

His eyebrows narrowed and his mouth opened and shut. Prouvaire didn’t know what he saw in his face but he frowned and then hugged him tightly. He froze on the spot and tried not to move with him so close. “Promise you’ll contact me if you need anything. And my parents home is open to you, you can just call. They would love to see you for the holidays since your parents are going back to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port.”

Prouvaire sighed and Courfeyrac’s grip around him tightened. “I promise if I need anything I will let you know and if I decide I need a family to spend Christmas with I will choose yours.”

Courfeyrac pulled away, shoved his hands into his pockets, “I’m not happy about this but I will allow you your theatrics and mystery. I’m taking you for dinner before the new year rolls in and that is nonnegotiable.”

“Deal.” A small, pleased smile found its way onto his lips.

“You will be at your rooms when I come calling?”

“Unless I am out for a walk, I’ve made no plans to be anywhere else.” Prouvaire promised. 

Courfeyrac nodded and took his hands in his once again. If Prouvaire was being honest with himself he’d acknowledge that he did not want to watch the man go. He wanted to break down in his arms and confess every last terrible thing that had happened. But he was not being honest because Courfeyrac could read him like a children’s book. He drew a breath--had he remembered to breath during their conversation?

“Joyeux Noël, Jean Prouvaire.” He said, squeezing his hands tight, running his thumbs over the back of his hands.

Prouvaire smiled with his lips pressed tight together, “Joyeux Noël, Henri Aurelien Courfeyrac.”

They watched each other for a moment--Prouvaire would watch him all day if he were allowed but he would realize what was wrong it he wasn’t careful and left now. Courfeyrac let go of his hands, “hurry home, your hands are freezing again.”

“Yours aren’t much better.” Prouvaire teased out of reflex even though both knew it was a damn lie. They were night and day now. Standing on two sides of the greatest divide. Prouvaire tucked his hands in his pickets and went home to lock himself inside his rooms. He started a fire and then pulled out his notebooks. For the first time since he hand been--since the attack--Jean Prouvaire began to write.

* * *

Prouvaire never really had nightmares. He couldn’t remember the last time he awoke washed in terror. Nightmares were for losing your train of thought and letting the metaphor you were building towards slip through your fingers. Nightmares were the state of the local government and Bahorel’s attempts at Latin.

This--this was something beyond terror--this was something unimaginable.

This was standing in an alley with a dread rat in his hands, blood on his lips and _those_ brown eyes watching him.

He had forgotten the butches would be closed on the twenty fourth of December. Why had he forgotten the butches would be closed on the twenty fourth? If he had remembered he wouldn’t have been on the streets chasing down rodents in the snow like a starved beast.

Prouvaire’s cravat was damp and cold against his even colder skin and the rat, the rat was heavy and sticky and clenched in his fingers. Too late to drop it, too late to try to hide the truth, the fangs he could feel pressed against his lower lip.

Courfeyrac went from confusion to alarm to his lip trembling and a shaky step back.

Prouvaire didn’t look away. If these were to be the last moments of their friendship, he would engrave every second to his memory. The alley was cold and damp and the night wind blew his hair. Courfeyrac shivered; Prouvaire didn’t. Courfeyrac’s eyes went to the corpse in his hands and Prouvaire dropped the rat. It fell with a thud that echoed.

“I’m sorry.” Prouvaire said, his words a hoarse whisper. Courfeyrac took another step away, expression shattered. He was being ripped away all over again, the first with the feeling of blood being pulled from his veins, the second watching him now flee.

Courfeyrac’s steps halted and he changed course in an instant, he ran at him. Prouvaire shut his eyes: better to die here at his hands than live a thousand years alone.

Courfeyrac’s arms were around him, clutching desperately at his back as a sob wrecked his body.

Worse than death, again. Prouvaire screwed his eyes shut, “I’m sorry.” He repeated the apology for the cold of his skin, for the still of his heart.

Courfeyrac pulled away and Prouvaire opened his eyes. Tears streaked his friend’s face and his skin was pale. “What happened--? No.” He looked around the alley to the puddles forming in the beaten cobblestone, to the lanterns hung at the street, casting them both in dark orange glow. He touched his arm, “not here. Come.”

Lacing their fingers together, Courfeyrac pulled him down the alley. His pulse beat between Prouvaire’s fingers but the still-warm blood that pooled in his stomach kept the hunger at bay. Prouvaire allowed himself to be led through the streets, back to where the streetlights burned bright. Courfeyrac took him to his rooms. He shut the door behind him. Tears shone in his eyes as he paced the room, hands moving uselessly at his sides. He stopped, turned towards him.

“What happened?” He stepped forward and took Prouvaire’s cold hands in his. He lead him to the chaise and sat him down, “Jehan, what happened?”

Words failed him.

He shook his head and tried to get back up but he was exhausted. He was tired of lying, he was tired of pretending he was okay. He missed his friends and his family. He missed the taste of sweets and anything other than the metallic blood. Not only that, but the rat hadn’t stilled the ravaging hunger. He needed to find other means of feeding and soon. Especially with Courfeyrac here and determined.

He had let himself get lost in his words and he had let the time slip by him until the hunger was all he could think of. The hunger and the terror of it making him lose control. 

Courfeyrac struggled for a moment to find what he wanted to say, then he settled on, “it’s alright. You don’t have to tell me. I’m here. I will always be here for you, no matter the circumstances.”

“I’m a monster.” Prouvaire protested, the words falling from his lips.

Courfeyrac gasped, the lightest intake of breath. He reached out and touched the side of his face, ran his thumb along his cheekbone, “never. Not to me, not to our friends.”

“There is blood all over my mouth. I’ll never wear this cravat again.”

Courfeyrac pulled his sleeve down and with an impossibly gentle, feather-touch, wiped at his mouth. He frowned, “Don’t move.” He left the room and Prouvaire stared at the window. Snowflakes meandered by on a midnight breeze. Courfeyrac returned with a wet cloth. He wiped at his mouth and Prouvaire reached up to take it from him. Courfeyrac swatted his hand away. He laced their fingers together and continued cleaning his lips with his free hand.

“When did this happen? All those weeks ago? When you started acting strange?”

Prouvaire nodded against the cloth.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were hurt?”

“I wasn’t hurt. I was killed. I’m an undead monster.”

Courfeyrac looked up, eyes wide and shining, his lips were parted and his bottom lip trembling. “You’re not a monster. These are not the hands of a monster. This is not the brain of a monster. These are not the lips of a monster.” His words were hot against his lips and then Courfeyrac was kissing him like a prayer. His thumb ran along the back of his hand, forward and back, a feather-touch. Prouvaire felt the absence of heat rush through him and he pulled away.

“What was the meaning of that?” His words were gentle and his eyes burned with tears. He had wanted nothing but this for so long and now that Courfeyrac was here, pressing his lips to his--he couldn’t have it.

“You’re not a monster. You are bright and audacious and good. You are rapidly taking over my every thought. I couldn’t bare to know you were alone on le réveillon de Noël. I slipped out after mass to find you. I should have done so sooner. You should never have been alone when you were attacked. I’ve been loathe to watch you leave and if only I had been brave enough to say so sooner. I might have been there.”

Prouvaire shook his head. “There was nothing you could have done. It--” He wiped at the tears falling freely from his eyes now. “It happened so quickly. I heard a woman scream and I went to help. I only remember flashes of her eyes and her hand and then I woke up on the cobblestones and there was no one else there. There was no fight. It was over in a moment.”

Courfeyrac reached out and hugged him tightly. His shoulders were shaking and Prouvaire could do nothing but cling to him. He could not stop crying but he could not allow himself to break down further.

A wave of hunger rushed through him and he pulled away.

“What is it?” Courfeyrac asked, reaching out to him. 

“Sorry, I, I haven’t eaten in a few days and the butchers were closed and I could only find a rat.”

“A single rat in all of Paris?”

“I’m not a very _good_ monster.” Prouvaire said and he didn’t know if he was trying to joke or if that was his new truth.

“You’re not a monster at all.” Courfeyrac stared at him and then bit his lip. “You know what...here. You need blood so this is what we’re going to do about it.” He got to his feet and went over to the kitchen. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out a wine glass. Prouvaire frowned because while the color was ...somewhat vaguely in the same family--

Courfeyrac pulled out and knife and sliced his arm open. He held the bleeding wound over the cup and let the blood pool in it. Prouvaire shot to his feet.

“Are you mad?” he shouted and raced to grab some bandages. He ran to Courfeyrac’s side and the wine glass was already full of blood. “You are absolutely mad. Sit down now that’s too much blood.”

“I’m fine.” Courfeyrac said and somehow sounded it. Prouvaire glared at him and pressed the bandage to the wound and forced him to sit back down.

“You are absolutely the most reckless man I’ve ever met!”

“You’re starving. You need blood. There it is in a wine glass in the kitchen.”

“What If I can’t control myself. What if I need more.” Prouvaire demanded, tears filling his eyes once again. 

“I can give you another glass or two I’m sure.”

“Absolutely not.”

Courfeyrac leaned back and looked at him like this was the most natural conversation in the world to be having, “Well I can’t put it back in my arm so you might as well drink it.”

Prouvaire turned with wide, terrified eyes. “What if I can’t control myself? What if I _hurt_ you?”

“You’ve been drinking a pint of pigs blood every few days. I don’t think you’re capable of drinking me dry. You never finish your meals.”

Prouvaire took a few shaky steps back to distance him from the thought, " _You’re not a meal._ ”

Courfeyrac shrugged, “consider it a transfusion. Remember when Combeferre and Joly were talking about how they got to take part in one?”

Prouvaire shook his head and tried to will the tears away. A few slipped down his cheeks and Courfeyrac reached out to wipe them away. His hand was warm on his face.

“Please? You’ll feel better when you see I’m right.”

“I won’t feel better if you’re wrong.” Prouvaire marched back into the kitchen and took the knife off the counter. He handed it to Courfeyrac. “Promise me you’ll protect yourself. I’m already lost.”

“You’re not. But if makes you feel any better I will stab you in the heart if you come at me in a vampiric rage.”

Oddly enough, it did make him feel better about this whole immensely terrible situation. “Fine.” he sighed and behind him Courfeyrac swore lightly and muttered under his breath. “Fine.” Prouvaire repeated.

He walked into the kitchen and took a sip of the blood. It was warm still and he swallowed thickly. He expected to lose control of himself but he still felt exactly the same, if a bit ill at the thought of drinking Courfeyrac's blood, of him wounding himself at all. 

“How does my blood taste?” Courfeyrac asked, still seated on the couch because he was an absolute reckless fool. He had put the knife down as well.

Prouvaire turned before he could get his grimace under control and Courfeyrac squawked in outrage. “I’m sorry but I might be ill.” At first Prouvaire had thought it was the notion of drinking his friends blood that made him feel so, but, no, it genuinely tasted horrendous. 

“You’re joking with me.”

Prouvaire ignored him and took a deep breath as he drank the rest like a particularly pretentious wine at the end of the night--straight down his throat so he didn’t have to taste it.

“Isn’t human blood supposed to taste good? Is it not supposed to fill vampires with bloodlust?” Courfeyrac asked, as if that wasn't the very thing that Prouvaire was terrified might kill him. 

“I think vampires are liars.” Prouvaire whispered, leaning over and breathing in deeply. “I think they’re trying to appear more vicious than they actually are. Well, they are vicious--”

Courfeyrac narrowed his eyes and looked at him like he didn’t believe it and Prouvaire laughed. There had been nothing kind about his death but...he wasn’t that vampire. He was Jean Prouvaire and he was nothing like the creature that murdered him and turned him into a vampire. He had friends. He had people who trusted him enough to slice open their skin and put themselves at risk for him. 

This wasn’t how he pictured this going. He pictured his friend turning on him. He pictured a swift death or revulsion. He laughed harder.

“If you make yourself ill, I’m not reopening the wound.”

“Please don’t or I really will be ill.” Prouvaire gasped between laughs. 

Courfeyrac sputtered and then laughed. Prouvaire echoed it and for a long moment the pair just laughed. Then Courfeyrac came over and filled a glass up with water and handed it to Prouvaire. He sipped it and tried to rinse the taste out of his mouth as best he could.

“Thank you.” Prouvaire said with sincere gratitude. 

Courfeyrac shrugged and leaned against the table, “didn’t really do it for you.”

Prouvaire swallowed the water and raised his eyebrow, “Oh?”

“Yes.” Courfeyrac said then he placed his hands on either side of Prouvaire’s face and he kissed him. Prouvaire kissed him back desperately. He so wanted this to be different but--how could the world feel bleak when his lips were on his?

They broke apart and then Prouvaire leaned in and kissed him again.

Courfeyrac reached up and untied the caveat at his throat with soft fingers. He let the material drop to the floor. He put his hands gently around his neck, cupping his face and ran his thumbs over his jawline. Prouvaire trusted him completely.

His pulse didn’t race, but Jean Prouvaire smiled.

“Is this okay?” Courfeyrac whispered, impossibly tender. 

“More than okay.” Prouvaire tilted his neck back as Courfeyrac kissed along his jawline and then down his neck.

His lips were so soft on his skin that it was almost easy to forget that it had been teeth at the very spot that killed him. He reached out and grabbed his wrists just for something to hold.

Courfeyrac kissed his lips again, running his fingers through his hair. Prouvaire tugged at his clothes, content at ripping the buttons off instead of taking the time to undo them. Courfeyrac made a noise that was a combination of a moan, laughed and small cry of alarm. “Don’t you dare ruin these clothes.”

“Well then, take them off.”

Courfeyrac tried to raise his eyebrows seductively but his eyes were too bright and his smile too wide for anything but giddy. Giddy over him removing his clothes. He was impossible. 

They stumbled over to the bed, pausing only a single moment for Courfeyrac to gently hang his clothes over the back of a chair. Prouvaire laid back into the pillows—it seemed Courfeyrac was spending a small portion of his inheritance on pillows and, in this moment, Prouvaire couldn’t complain.

“You have other clothes.” Prouvaire reminded him, just in case he had forgotten. 

“Vampires are so impatient.” Courfeyrac told him as he climbed onto the bed and Prouvaire leaned up to kiss him but he laughed instead.

“This isn’t funny. I was murdered.” He said between laughs. Courfeyrac was pushing through his own laughter to run his hands through his hair as he pushed him down and kissed him again and again and again.

Prouvaire wanted him with an urgency that was so strong that it would have frightened him if he wasn’t still vaguely queasy from the blood before. He pushed Courfeyrac up and then twisted them both around until he was sitting on top of him.

And then neither of them thought about vampires or murder or the city that surrounded them for hours.

* * *

“Promise you won’t leave.” Courfeyrac whispered into his skin later that night. The fire was dying down and Prouvaire had to get up and fix it just as soon as he could drag himself from the bed. Courfeyrac was warm pressed against him but he was cold and stealing all of his warmth.

“If I become a danger, I must--” Prouvaire began--Courfeyrac had to understand that if he had to leave to protect the city, he would do so readily. 

“How could you possibly be more of a danger than the governing powers that are slowly starving the most vulnerable of us?”

“ _Henri Aurelien Courfeyrac._ ” Prouvaire sighed. He leaned forward and kissed him again. Kissing him was a revelation.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes at the usage of his name and changed the subject, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“You really are a changeling.” Prouvaire breathed, no wonder he had taken the whole undead thing in stride.

Courfeyrac flicked him lightly on the nose, “No, I’m being serious.”

“Yes, you may. I shared my secret with you so you may share your secret with me.”

“I—“ he began and then broke off. Prouvaire raised his eyebrow and Courfeyrac dropped his head on the pillows. “I have to tell you that…” he told the pillows, his voice muffled.

“Are you being bashful now? When there are no secrets between us? When you have me naked in your bed?”

Courfeyrac shut him up with a kiss and then pulled away and sat up, the bed sheets pooling around his waist. Prouvaire looked around for a shirt or something for him to put on so he didn’t catch a cold. He really ought to get up and stir the fire. 

“I should have told you this ages ago but the thought of my feelings not being returned paralyzed me into silence.”

“I love you.” Prouvaire told him, pushing himself up and kissing him again. This was going to be problematic in the future when they needed to do other things.

“Well.” Courfeyrac said and kissed him again, “I love you with a strength I didn’t know I possessed, I search your face out in every crowd, I would follow you to the underworld and to the top of Olympus. You are the world to me and I don’t want to live a day without speaking with you. You are bright and generous and don’t even get me started on what I’ve just discovered tonight.”

Prouvaire smiled. He had never felt this content or this happy before in his life.

Happiness was for the living.

But perhaps, every once in a while, when the stars align and people like Courfeyrac loved people like him, it was also for the undead.

“Combeferre made me promise not to do anything foolish but here I am, sleeping with a vampire _and_ confessing my utter adoration for you in the same night.”

Prouvaire laughed and then buried his face into Courfeyrac’s shoulder, blushing.

“I never thought I’d find a vampire in my bed but I’m afraid I’m quite content for neither of us to ever leave.”

“I’m glad I got to spend some of Christmas with you.” Prouvaire confessed, readying himself for what he must convince Courfeyrac of next. 

“I’ll have to break my mother’s heart and miss Christmas supper this year. It would take an act of God to force me from my bed now that I have you in it.”

“In this uncertain world, you should be with your family.” Prouvaire whispered into his skin as gently as he could. 

“I quite truly cannot leave you for you are my family.”

“You must. I’ll be here when you return. You have convinced me to hold onto hope. I’m not the only--vampire in Paris, not by far. I’ll write to my old tutor as well, he grew up a werewolf and if he could support me though arithmetic, he can support me through this as well.”

Courfeyrac kissed him for a long moment and Prouvaire thought he had won the argument but when he pulled away Prouvaire could tell he was not yet defeated.

“In the morning we’ll go to my parents for breakfast. I’ll have them butcher a chicken and you’ll not be subjected to my disgusting blood on le jour de Noël. Then we will get on a train and we will go to your parents. We will sit them down together and tell them everything.”

“About us?” Prouvaire asked, not missing his chance to be coy.

“Well, if you want I can inform them that I shared the night with a vampire to diffuse the tension.”

Prouvaire gasped and sat up a little, “Under no circumstances are you to tell them that.”

“That is how I’m telling our friends. You cannot deny me that.”

“I don’t know if I’m capable of denying you anything.” Prouvaire confessed, laying his head on his chest so he could listen to his heartbeat.

“Well, you just did so--”

Prouvaire laughed and propped himself up on his elbow, he looked down at Courfeyrac, smiling. He didn’t think he still had this sort of joy within him. “Fine. Fine, we’ll go to your parents. Fine, we’ll travel south and we’ll tell my parents and I’ll tell Jacques in person about the ill fate that befell me in Paris. When we return we’ll tell our friends and we’ll heal from this. As much as I can, I’ll heal from this.”

Courfeyrac held him against him for a long moment before speaking, “You could be Paris' first undead lawyer and I don’t believe even Bahorel would begrudge you of that.”

“Please, I can’t inflict that kind of conflict on one of my dearest friends. And stop trying to summon him with such talk, I adore him but I do not want him here at this moment. That’s for tomorrow when the sun has risen, if you truly must try to summon him. Let me have you for a little longer to myself without worry for what the daylight holds.”

“All night.” Courfeyrac promised with a kiss. “And then every moment after.”

Prouvaire smiled until his cheeks hurt. “And every moment after,” he responded in kind.


End file.
